Testament
by Jennifer N
Summary: It's her whole world, blown to pieces, reconstructed as this universe she still doesn't quite understand . . ." Sydney, New Year's past and present. COMPLETE


**Title:** Testament

**Author:** Jennifer N (jennifer_n97@hotmail.com)

**Summary:**  "It's her whole world, blown to pieces, reconstructed as this universe she still doesn't quite understand . . . she is caught in an endless loop, a neverending cycle.  All thoughts and memories bring her crashing back to the present, to all that she had and lost."  Sydney, New Year's past and present, 1/1

**Category:** Angst

**Spoilers:** through 3.10, "Remnants"

**Rating:** PG-13

**Distribution:** CM, SD-1, ff.net

**Disclaimer:**  _Alias_ does not belong to me.  Obviously.  Neither do the songs "1999" and "Millennium," nor Charlie Brown and his Christmas tree. :)

**A/N:** Thanks to **Becky, ****Steph, ****Lissa, and ****Ciara32 for looking at this.**

**December 1981**

She is six years old, primly sitting at her desk with the ratty "Sydney" name tag on the front.  She listens with rapt attention, as she usually does, to her teacher.  Mrs. Hooper is explaining to her first graders about something called New Year's resolutions, goals that people make for themselves at the beginning of a new year.  Mrs. Hooper reminds them that tomorrow is only a half day of school, and a party day at that.  When they return to school in January, the big calendar on the bulletin board will read 198**_2_, not 198****_1_.  All of the boys and girls' eyes widen at this pronouncement.**

Sydney carefully takes her most-sharpened pencil out of her green pencil box and writes her name on the top of the lined paper her teacher gives her.  S-Y-D-N-E-Y leaveaspace B-R-I-S-T-O-W.  She rests her chin in her left hand as she stops to think.  What to write, what to write . . .  She has goals for herself, many goals, but most are the secret kind, the kind she would never dream of writing on a piece of paper at school.  What if the teacher decided to hang these up on the wall, as she usually did?  Sydney would be horrified.  After several minutes—at least two, she thought to herself—Mrs. Hooper comes by and makes a few suggestions, finishing up by asking how she is doing.  She is fine, Sydney tells her, mimicking the father she never sees anymore.  Her heart is breaking, her eyes and nose protest from too many tears shed in the last three and a half weeks, but she is fine.  Honest.

Her teacher hugs her for a moment, then leaves her alone to finally write resolutions she feels are safe to put down on paper here.

_1.  I will go to bed at 8:00 each night._

_2.  I will keep my room clean._

_3.  I will be nice to everyone._

Later that day, she sits nestled in her Aunt Emily's lap as she tells her about school that day.  She rattles on about the chocolate milk she had for lunch and the party that is tomorrow and the games she played out at recess before telling her biggest news.  "You know what?" she asks, her eyes wide.  "It's going to be a _new year_ really soon."

"It _is_?" Emily tries her best not to laugh at the earnest expression on Sydney's face.

"Uh huh.  Mrs. Hooper had us write these res—resa—these things we're going to do next year."

Emily smoothes the dark green jumper and straightens a sagging white knee sock as Sydney explains the three goals she set for herself.  "But sweetie, you already do those things," she points out.

"I know."  She sighs sadly as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders; perhaps it is.  "But I couldn't write down what I wanted to.  That would have been too . . ."

"Embarrassing?" Emily supplies.

"Yeah.  Embarrassing," Sydney echoes, tears welling in her eyes.

"You know, we have paper and pencils here.  If you wanted, you could make an additional—an extra—set of New Year's resolutions, a list that no one else would see."

"I could?"

"Sure.  Let me go check on dinner and then I'll get the paper out, okay?"  She is surprised to feel two tiny arms wrap around her neck.

"Thank you," Sydney says in a relieved voice.  "Thank you very, very much."

The pair walk to the kitchen, where Sydney settles at the table and without hesitation writes a new list.

_1.  I will not cry as much._

_2.  I will not talk to Mommy in heaven._

_3.  I will be a good girl so Daddy will come home._

**December 1985**

The hallway is filled with voices as the fifth grade classes return to their rooms from the cafeteria.  Ten-year-old Sydney is among them, quietly chatting with her best friend Francie as they enter the classroom and slowly walk to their desks.

"You need to get out your journal," Sydney reminds her as she eases her long legs under the desk.

Francie groans, just like she always does.  "Why did we have to get Miss Baxter this year?  None of the other classes have to write in stupid journals _every day_."

Sydney rolls her eyes as _she_ always does every day after lunch.  "Come on, it's not that bad.  Some of her topics are pretty good," she defends their teacher.  She secretly likes journal time, is excited every day to see what their new topic will be, but she won't tell Francie that.  It's one thing to effortlessly make straight As, but to actually enjoy something they have to do each day . . . Sydney is smart enough to know its best to say as little as possible during Francie's daily rant.

"You mean like today's topic?"  Francie turns to read from the chalkboard.  "'What are your resolutions for next year?  List at least three and tell why you picked them.'  Puh-lease.  How lame is that?"

"It's not that lame.  Today is our last full day of school this year," Sydney points out.

Francie rolls her eyes as Miss Baxter closes the door to the classroom.  "Your journal topic is on the board," she says while Francie scampers into her seat.

The classroom grows silent as twenty-five ten-year-olds contemplate their goals for the next year.  Sydney rests her cheek on her hand as she stares out the window, lost in thought.  She recalls her resolutions in the past, thinking how much she has changed since that first list in first grade.  It has been four years since she lost her mother—and her father, for that matter; he's changed since that fateful car accident.  She's so much bigger and taller and smarter than she was that day she answered the door and the police officer asked her if her daddy was home.  She wonders sometimes if her mother is watching her from wherever she is—she's not certain she believes in heaven; why would God take her mommy away from her?—and if she would even recognize this tall, gangly girl who is acting a little more grown up every day.

Someone coughs and with a jerk Sydney sits up straight in her chair.  Miss Baxter is eyeing her curiously, she notices as her face turns crimson.  She hastily retrieves her composition notebook from her desk and carefully writes the date at the top of her page.  She pauses and takes a deep breath, trying to force her red cheeks to return to their normal pale color.  Moments later, her head is scrunched over her notebook as she writes furiously, suddenly overcome by all of the words that are spilling out of her.  She barely even stops to examine her cursive.

Ten minutes later she closes her notebook and carries it to the teacher's desk.  Miss Baxter looks up from her grade book, eyes asking the question her lips will not.  Understanding dawns on her face, and she hands Sydney the stapler.  She opens her notebook to the page she has just written, folds it over, and promptly staples it.

It is an agreement teacher and students have had since the beginning of the year.  If there is an entry the student feels is too personal, too private, too risky to be shared, he or she may staple the page so that the teacher can not read it.  Miss Baxter does not want them to not write simply because they are scared of their words winding up in the wrong hands; she wants them writing, expressing themselves.  In all her years of teaching, she has never broken her word to her students.  Stapled pages remained closed, unread, for the writer's eyes only.

But with Sydney she longs to make an exception.

She's read her file, knows that beyond the outstanding grades and advanced reading level is a lonely girl whose mother died a few years ago, whose father all but abandoned her shortly after that.  In the first half of this year there have been two parent-teacher conference days, one field trip, and a Halloween party, and she has yet to see what Jack Bristow looks like.  She instinctively knows she won't see him the next day at their Christmas party either.

Sydney sits in the back of the room because she is so tall the other children can not see the board if she sits in front of them.  She is always watching, always observing, always mentally making note of something.  Her teacher is certain of this.  She says little, unless it is to her best friend Francie, whom she seems to open up to a bit more.  But she truly expresses herself in her writing, pages and pages of journal entries that fascinate those who read them.  Miss Baxter has shared Sydney's journals about favorite movies and favorite places and other benign topics with her fellow teachers, her principal.  They all agree that she's an English major in the making.  Perhaps one day her name will be emblazoned on the front of a novel on display in their local bookstore.

But there are journals—too many, Miss Baxter worries—that no one has read.  At least once a week, Sydney wordlessly walks to the front of the room, hand outstretched for the stapler.  And every time, she hands it to her.

She had hoped this time the page would remain open, that she could read the resolutions of this private girl.  This afternoon, when she is all alone in the classroom, she knows she will be tempted to peek and read what little she can from a folded over page.

_1.  I will be brave and try new things._

_2.  I will study very hard so I can be a teacher when I grow up._

_3.  I will make my father proud of me._

**December 1990**

It is one hour until midnight, and Sydney munches on popcorn and other snacks with the rest of the girls in Francie's living room.  It's not a large group—only five girls in all—but she hangs back as she normally does when she's around people she doesn't know very well.

They have spent the evening gorging on pizza and ice cream, giggling and watching movies, only to talk through them as they comment on the clothes and the cute guys.  They are fifteen years old, sophomores in high school, and life is slowly looking up for them.

At some point within the next twelve months, all five will turn the magic age—sixteen.  And that alone is reason to celebrate.

At eleven-thirty, they rewind their second movie of the evening and settle in to watch the ball drop at Times Square.  They hold hands and scream as they count down the final minute of 1990, and even Sydney bursts into gleeful laughter and cheers when the ball lights up and the big "1991" appears on the screen.

Francie yells "Group hug!" and Sydney is surrounded by arms and hair and wiggling bodies as the five grab each other in the biggest bear hug she's ever been a part of.  Then one of the girls breaks loose and grabs her pillow instead, resulting in a stern look from Mrs. Calfo in the doorway a few minutes later.

They finally turn out the lights at three, and they chat for another hour after that.  Sydney doesn't say much, offering a comment here and there, but then she's always been more interested in listening and processing her thoughts than sharing them with anyone.  Even Francie.

At some point though, one of the girls asks if anyone made any New Year's resolutions, and Francie comments that she's sure Sydney did, even if she won't reveal them.  "Come on, Syd.  Am I right or am I right?"

Sydney scrunches her nose and sighs, wishing the conversation had not gone this direction.  "You're right," she reluctantly admits.

"What are they?" one of the girls asks her curiously.

"I—I'd rather not say," she says slowly.  "They're private, you know?  Just for my eyes."

The girls are silent for only a moment before Francie changes the subject, as she often does to help out her best friend, and Sydney quietly breathes a sigh of relief.  She allows the other girls to continue their conversation of a movie that is coming out soon while she recalls the resolutions she made that morning as she wrote in her journal.  She doesn't write in it every day, but she's been writing steadily for the past few years.  Sometimes, like today, she likes to go through the old ones, see how much she's grown up, how much she's changed.

She will be sixteen this spring, which alternately thrills her and scares her.  In June she will have completed half of high school—can it really be possible that graduation is two years away?  She is already taking advanced courses, preparing to take the SAT early at the suggestion of her guidance counselor.  She runs every morning before school, and she's thinking of trying out for the track team.

She hasn't seen her father in four months.  And even though they don't get along, even though every time she sees him part of her wishes he would get called away on another stupid airplane part trip, she is deathly afraid that her high school graduation will be the final death knell of their relationship.  For if he isn't much of a father now, he won't think she needs him at all then.

But she does need him.  So very much.

If only she could ever gather up the courage to tell him.

If only she could just shove one of her journals, _any of her journals, into his hands as soon as he walked in the door.  Then he would know._

But she is afraid.  And so she will go on as she always does, longing for the father she vaguely remembers she used to have.

_1. I will make at least a 1450 on the SAT._

_2. I will try out for the varsity track team._

_3. I will tell my father I love him._

**December 1996**

Tonight she is Kate Jones, a new alias for her.  She wears a short blonde wig that has been styled with an extra bit of pizzazz for the New Year's party she and Dixon are attending.

Unfortunately, terrorists never seem to take off for the holidays.

And neither does the CIA.

She accepts the wine glass her partner hands her even as her eyes scan for their target.  They make small talk, blending in with the rest of the guests at this posh affair, as they prepare to set their mission into action.

"I need to go powder my nose," she says finally in a convincing British accent.  "Please excuse me."

Dixon nods and walks towards the bar, his hand briefly slipping into his front pocket.  The lights flicker once, twice, and Sydney vanishes down a long hallway and through a heavy metal door.  She returns minutes later, the computer disk tucked inside her compact.

They linger inside the party, waiting until everyone begins the final countdown before rushing out of the building towards their limousine.  They hear the clock tolling midnight, see the fireworks explode in the sky, and wish each other a happy new year as Dixon opens her door and she confidently steps inside.

Sydney stares out the window at the Houses of Parliament while Dixon wishes aloud that he could be home this year for New Year's.  Work kept him away from home until Christmas Eve, and now the two of them have been globetrotting for the past five days.  He has two small children at home—the only kids Sydney has ever baby-sat, but she loves them—and although he doesn't say it much, Sydney knows he misses his wife terribly.

Marcus and Diane Dixon have taken her under their wing in the past year, something she appreciates more than they will ever know.  She suspects Diane invited her to dinner the first time to check her out, to see who this young woman was that her husband was spending so much time with.  But Sydney quickly reassured her through her actions and words that she really was just a fresh-faced college student who happened to move up the ranks quickly at the office.  When Diane asked her at that first dinner if she had a boyfriend, Sydney's face fell and Dixon quickly shook his head at his wife, who then commented that with her busy schedule of school and the bank, it was probably for the best that she was single.

It took every ounce of Sydney's training to keep the tears from welling in her eyes as she tried to push thoughts of Noah aside.  It's been a year since he unceremoniously dumped her, and she hates herself for still letting him hurt her.  She hopes to meet a wonderful man some day, settle down in an adorable house with a white picket fence.

But now she knows better than to mix business and pleasure.  She has seen what a disaster that can be.  She has lived it.

So instead she contents herself with her friends and her studies—when she can make it to class, that is.  She has grown accustomed to writing term papers in her head, the words spilling out onto a computer screen the moment she has access to one.  Dixon is constantly worrying over her, telling her she will hurt her eyes when she tries to snatch a few extra minutes of reading time in the dim light of the plane as everyone else tries to sleep.  He tried to convince her to drop one of her lit classes next semester, pointing out she could take it in the summer instead.  She had smiled sweetly, knowing he had good intentions, but firmly told him she was taking a full load this summer too.  In the end he had thrown up his hands and let her do what she wanted.  Deep down he had known she would never give in anyway.

She is majoring in English, just like her mother before her.  She didn't mean to follow in her mother's footsteps, she tries to tell herself; it just happened that way.  That doesn't stop a thrill from racing down her spine when she runs into the little old librarian on the third floor who is always so helpful when she needs to find a book right away.  The same woman who looked at her sharply the first time Sydney asked her a question, then did a double take when she read the name on her library card.  She never really knew Laura Bristow, but she often saw her dark head buried over a book in one of the carrels, often checked out a dozen books to a woman with that name on her library card.  It's not much, but it's the most she's heard about her mother in years.  Sydney's father doesn't talk to her, and when he does, her mother is a forbidden topic of discussion.

She hasn't told anyone yet—although she thinks both Francie and Dixon suspect—that she is considering graduate school in a few years.  Get her M.A., maybe her Ph.D. too.  Teach English to college students—she doesn't think she can handle high school—where she can stand at the front of a lecture hall and make great authors come alive.  Shakespeare.  Browning.  Frost.  Tolstoy.

She breaks out of her reverie long enough to notice that they are back at the hotel.  Dixon escorts her to her room and tells her he will meet her downstairs at five a.m.—a bit early even for them, but they had both decided they wanted to be on the first flight back to the States.  With any luck, Dixon will be able to catch the end of a bowl game or two as his children play on the living room floor with him.

She locks her door carefully, then runs her routine inspection for bugs and anything suspicious.  At last she is satisfied the room is clean.  She removes the wig from her head, carefully unzips her expensive dress, and takes a quick shower.  While her hair stays wrapped in a towel, she pulls her journal out of her carry-on, buried underneath an extra sweater and a novel she is supposed to be reading for one of her classes next semester.  She uncaps her favorite pen, poised to write, but the words aren't there.  She frowns, her dimples missing from her face, as she ponders what to write.

It's true she's late writing her resolutions this year, although technically it is still—she does some quick calculations—five o'clock in the afternoon in Los Angeles.  But she never has to stop and think about her resolutions; they're always in the back of her mind, just waiting for the chance to appear on paper.  In the last few months though she's grown so busy and exhausted that she hasn't had the time to mull over what she wants to accomplish in 1997.

_Maybe that's it_, she realizes as the words magically appear in her mind, as she decides not to overthink her resolutions this year and just write something down.

_1.  I will go to class and turn in my assignments on time._

_2.  I will use my sick days at the bank._

_3.  I will stop burying myself in school and work and try to have a life again._

She taps the page with her pen, hesitating.  She's only listed three resolutions in the past, but she hasn't listed the one resolution that appears in some form or fashion every time . . .  Rolling her eyes at herself, she shrugs and mutters, "It's just a list, Syd."  She finishes her list with a flourish and tucks it back inside her bag.  If she's lucky she may still catch three hours of sleep before her wake up call rouses her.

_4.  I will see my dad at least once this year.  And I won't mention Mom._

**December 1999**

"Come on, Syd, you're taking forever," Francie whines as she leans against the bathroom's doorframe.  "If we don't leave soon, we're going to miss the millennium."

Sydney rolls her eyes at her best friend and roommate as she fumbles for her lip gloss.  She knows Francie is exaggerating, knows that Francie just returned in her third outfit of the evening, that she wants to look her best too.  They have shared several countdowns to midnight in the years they have been friends, but they usually consist of rented movies, take out, and their comfiest clothes.

This year is different.

"You remember the new code, right?" Francie asks her.

"Yes, sweetie," she replies, doing her best not to burst out laughing.  If only Francie knew how many alphanumeric codes she has to memorize on the spur of the moment, how many escape routes and precautionary measures she must keep track of in order stay alive doing her job.  But Francie does not know these things; she merely wants to make sure that the 'girlfriend code,' as she calls it, is fully operational.

In thirty minutes they are meeting a group of friends at one of the more popular clubs downtown.  It promises to be an informal gathering, a good way for different friends to get to know each other.  But this year, quite possibly for the first time in their group, everyone is part of a couple.  Will and his girlfriend Kristin—they recently celebrated their monumental three month anniversary; Sydney and Francie doubt they will make it to four, but they keep their mouths shut.  Francie and Charlie—it's only their second date, but from the looks on their faces, everyone is already speculating.

Sydney and Danny.

They've been unofficially dating for almost six months now, although neither has really addressed it.  He is a second year med student; she a grad student by day, spy by night.  Their dates are sporadic at best—a cup of coffee here, a dinner and movie three weeks later—but they try their best to keep in touch.  She sends him postcards from some of her business trips, although she is careful not to send too many; she can't afford to make him suspicious.  He has flowers delivered to her apartment every week and trudges to the florist to personally write the notes.  She's never told him she's saved every note, and he's never confessed that he surrounds himself with her postcards—in his backpack, on his dashboard, in the kitchen, next to his alarm clock.  His friends are starting to tease him about matrimony, and he takes it all in stride.  Truthfully, he would love to marry her; he knows it's too soon, that they don't know each other well enough.  But he instinctively knows that she's the only girl who will ever possess his heart, the one he will love until his final breath.

He's not so certain about her feelings.

Sure, he knows she cares, that she finds him somewhat attractive—or at least, she's not repulsed by him.  But she's so quiet sometimes, so held back, that he wishes he could get some sort of signal or sign from her.  Something that would tell him she's as crazy about him as he is about her.  He hopes that tonight, on New Year's Eve, they will finally define their relationship, decide together where they are going with this.

She smoothes her long hair back one last time—she really should cut it, maybe shoulder length, she thinks to herself—before grinning at Francie and grabbing her keys.  They are late to the gathering, the last in their group to show up, but neither Charlie nor Danny seems to mind too much when they see them.  They spend the evening munching on appetizers and ordering drinks, swaying to the music on the dance floor, looking back on the last year.

The last millennium.

At eleven-thirty the deejay plays "1999" for the third time—he promises this time it really is the last time he's playing it—as Sydney and Francie squeal and everyone else groans.  It was amusing the first time, tolerable the second, but now everyone else wants to destroy the CD.  They'll be glad when the clock strikes twelve so they don't have to hear it anymore.

If only they could get Sydney and Francie to stop singing it.

"You don't understand," Francie tells everyone at their table when the song concludes.  "We have sung this song for years on New Year's Eve, just waiting for the real 1999—"

"—and now it really _is_ 1999—"

"—and we just can't help ourselves," Francie finishes with a giggle.  "Come on, let us relive our youth."

"Because you're positively ancient now," Danny says sarcastically as he puts his arm around Sydney's shoulder.

"When you've known someone as long as we have, it starts to feel that way," Sydney giggles.

"Yeah, you've known each other since what, high school?" Will asks.

Both women shake their heads furiously.  "Longer than that," Sydney says.

"Fourth grade," Francie interrupts.

"Summer before fourth grade," Sydney corrects.

Francie rolls her eyes.  "Whatever."

"I didn't realize you two went so far back," Danny comments.  He turns to face Francie.  "So what was Syd like as a child?"

"Oh, no," Sydney groans as everyone else laughs.  She leans forward and buries her head in her hands.

"What do you want to know?"

He shrugs.  "It sounds like the two of you have rung in the new year before.  What was she like?  Has she changed any?"

Francie pauses, reflecting.  "Not really.  She's still the quiet one of the two of us—"

"Do you really wonder why?" Sydney mutters, gesturing at her friend.

"Heard that, Syd.  Oh, I don't know.  She's about the same.  Still the quiet one, still the responsible one—and still the writer.  Although I guess it makes sense now, since she's the English person."  Francie grins.  "She's kept a journal of some kind for as long as I can remember."  She looks her friend in the eye.  "You wrote your resolutions out this morning, didn't you?"

Sydney reluctantly nods.

"See, Danny, it's simple.  Sydney here is a creature of habit—unless the bank interrupts her.  She'll probably still be writing in a journal when she's in her eighties, listing resolutions to behave at the nursing home or something."  Sydney sticks out her tongue as the rest of the group laughs.  She hates being the center of attention, and she still finds it surprising that she handles her job with SD-6 so well.  It's almost as if another person takes over when she's out in the field, someone who craves the spotlight.  She knows she could never behave that way in her real life.

Her job at SD-6 is taking more and more of her time.  She constantly has to leave class early or miss it altogether.  Her last three papers were turned in late, and a delay at the airport made her miss one of her exams.  She can usually flash her dimples and big brown eyes and make her professors sympathetic to her plight.  But she worries that next semester they won't be so forgiving, that she will have to accept much lower grades than she is capable of earning.

She loves her job.  She loves the thrill she gets when she puts on a wig and someone else's clothes.  She loves the rush of adrenaline she feels during a mission.  She loves the way her job challenges her mind.

And she is incredibly proud that her job helps save lives everywhere and protect her country.  She is a patriot, through and through, and doesn't even mind the anonymity of her job anymore.

She does worry, though, that her job is taking over her life.  She wants to get to know Danny better—she can honestly say she's never felt this way about a guy before, not even with Noah.  She wants to have time to hang out with her roommate, to spontaneously go to a movie or a bar or whatever and just be with the people she is closest to.

She wants to forget that Mother's Day exists on her calendar, wants to actually remember Father's Day this year.  Last year she didn't remember until the beginning of July, when she finally had a chance to catch her breath and look through her June calendar.  Two weeks ago she sent her father a Christmas package—a card, some candy, and a tie he will probably return—and she received a similar package from him—a card, some candy, and a watch.  But it's been almost a year since she's seen him, and this time she can't lay all the blame at his feet.  Twice she has returned home from extended business trips for the bank and discovered that her father was in town, wanting to connect with her, and she wasn't there.

She's not even thirty yet, and she already feels overdue for a midlife crisis.  Something in her life has got to give, and soon, but she's not sure what to do.  She can't give up her friends or Danny.  She doesn't want to quit school or her job.  And as much as she hates to admit it, even after all of these years, she still misses her father.

For now she puts her compartmentalization skills to use, pushes all her worries aside and instead leans over and kisses Danny, surprising him.  She screams the countdown to midnight with her friends, grinning widely as they scream "Happy New Year!" to each other.  She hugs Francie and Will and listens to the deejay play "Millennium" and kisses Danny a few more times.

Her resolutions can wait until tomorrow.  For once, she has New Year's Day off, and she plans to enjoy it.

_1.  I will not let my job ruin my relationship with Danny._

_2.  I will make time for Francie and Will._

_3.  I will try to be more outgoing._

_4.  I will call Dad on his birthday.  And Father's Day._

**December 2001**

Sydney eases her aching body in the bathtub, lets the warm water seep into her.  She reaches out with her left hand to lift her wine glass to her lips, but stops when the light hits the ring on her finger.  She stares at it, the tears spilling down her cheeks.  Right now she should be ringing in the new year with her fiancée and her friends.  Right now she should be in the middle of a week or two's vacation from work.

Right now her friends are quietly watching a movie out in the living room, patiently waiting for her to join them.  Right now she has just spent the day in the training room at Credit Dauphine, brushing up on her martial arts skills.

Right now she is a lonely double agent battling a broken heart and the desire to murder her boss by any means necessary.

She still can't believe she was duped for so many years.  She wasn't CIA.  She wasn't helping her country.  She was destroying it.  She looks back on the devastation that brought the world to a halt three months earlier, and she worries that she may have indirectly played a part in it all.  What if some intel she provided, some contact she had, could somehow tie back to _them?  She does her best not to gag at the thought.  She once hesitatingly mentioned that to her father—he is a double too, which boggles her mind; she hopes there are no more surprises in her family history—and he immediately dismissed the idea and changed the subject.  She wasn't surprised; her father is still curt with his responses, although at least now they can carry on a conversation for two whole minutes.  _

When she asked Vaughn the same question in the warehouse, he reassured her for fifteen minutes that she was in no way tied to those horrific acts.  She thinks she likes his answer to her question better.

Vaughn . . . technically he's her handler, she's his asset.  They are colleagues united in their quest to destroy SD-6.

But they both know there's more to the story than that.

They're friends, she will readily admit, but she won't confess how highly she regards him.  She won't let herself see that she tells him things she would never dream of telling anyone else.

Even Danny.

She loved him so much.  It wasn't love at first sight; it was gradual, reassuring.  She preferred it that way—months of getting to know each other with no pressure, spending more and more time together until she knew, she _knew_ that she wanted to marry him.  Singing and all.

But now she looks back, and she feels as if she's being disrespectful to the dead, but she wonders if they would have lasted.  Sure, they would have had a beautiful wedding, a glorious honeymoon.  But around month three or four, the trips for the bank would have resumed their normal pace.  One day he would finally see a bruise on her face, a gash on her leg, _something—he was a doctor, after all—and start asking questions.  And even though she thought she circumvented all of that by telling him the truth—what she thought was the truth, she corrects—she knows he would have been too worried about her, too unbelieving of her abilities to survive the mission, to actually let her go and do her job.  Loving him, trying her best to allay his fears, could have made her lose her focus, could have distracted her just enough that she wouldn't see a brandished gun in time, wouldn't be able to throw a punch before it was too late.  Loving him could have killed her._

But life is cruel, especially to her.  Instead of being the one lowered to the ground, the one that everyone remembers with a smile, a shake of his head, and a _"She was so young,"_ she is left behind.  And he is gone.

She has cried more in the last few months than she has cried in her entire life.  It's not just about losing Danny, it's not just finding out her father had lied to her—it's her whole world, blown to pieces, reconstructed as this universe she still doesn't quite understand.  It's all she can do to get up in the morning, to turn off her alarm clock and go to the bathroom and brush her teeth and throw on the first outfit she pulls out of her closet.  She chats with Francie and grabs a bagel from the refrigerator and sits in traffic and lets that damn x-ray machine scan her for the millionth time.  She travels across the world, easily slipping into new names, new faces, new lives, because it is easier to become someone else than spend that time being her.

She wants to break free of this world that has enslaved her.  _1.  I will destroy the __Alliance__.  She wants to become the independent woman she vaguely remembers she used to be.  _2.  I will not call Vaughn as much.  _She wants to make plans with her father and not have him cancel on her._  3.  I will have dinner with Dad.__

She wants to stop crying.

**December 2002**

"Take these salads to table twenty-three and deliver these rolls to nineteen, 'kay?"  Francie fills Sydney's tray quickly and scurries away to sample the latest batch of alfredo sauce.

It is New Year's Eve, and instead of celebrating at a club or moodily reflecting in the bathtub, Sydney has been put to work.

Tonight, she is Sydney Bristow, server extraordinaire.

She carries the tray out of the kitchen and rounds a corner, narrowly missing Will and the four glasses he is carrying.  He laughs at her while she scrunches her nose and continues, mentally correcting herself.

Tonight, she is Sydney Bristow, server.

She doesn't mind helping out; none of them had exciting plans anyway.  She is keeping busy, forgetting about her double life and the people who inhabit it.  Her father.  Vaughn.

Her mother.

There are no words to describe how she felt when she learned Laura Bristow never existed.

There are no words to describe how she felt in that room in Taipei, dried blood on her chin, restraints around her wrists, Mommy Dearest shooting her beloved baby in the shoulder.

There are no words to describe how she feels now, seeing Irina Derevko, talking with her, working with her.

As a little girl she used to wish her mother had never died.  Twenty years later, she's discovered that sometimes wishes come true.  You just need to be careful what you wish for.

At the moment, all she is wishing for is eleven o'clock, the magic hour when the front door is locked and the sign on said door reads "Closed."  She checks her watch and sighs.  Seven-fifteen.

She spends the next hour rushing around the restaurant, delivering drinks and food, taking orders, helping bus the tables.  She is getting better at this, she realizes as she mentally calculates her tips.  Maybe she should give up espionage and spend the rest of her days working for Francie.  The idea appeals to her on some level.

Francie takes pity on her around eight-thirty and tells her she can just be a food runner for the rest of the night; she'll split her section between two of her top servers and Sydney can be their helper.  This is a relief to her, even as she pouts to Francie that she could use the tip money.  Francie rolls her eyes and tells the two servers of the change the next time they come into the kitchen, interrupting their conversation about the guy at the end of the bar who is, in the words of one, old enough to be their father.

All is well for ten minutes when Will pulls her aside.  "Syd, could you take that table in the corner for me?"

"I don't know—"

"Come on, it's just one table, two people; I checked.  You're going to be running food over there anyway," he wheedles.  "Please?"

She smiles and relents, just like he knows she will.  "You owe me one," she calls out as she walks away, grabbing a pen and pad of paper.

"Hi, I'm Sydney and—and I'm going to be your server tonight," she finishes glibly, hoping the woman seated before her didn't notice her surprise.

It's not every day she gets to be in public with Michael Vaughn.

She rattles off the specials, glad that some part of her brain is working, as she takes in the cut of his suit, his wrinkled forehead, the amused smile that finally overtakes his lips and his green eyes as she transforms into Sydney Bristow, server extraordinaire.

She returns with their drinks and takes their order, smiling and joking and being generally helpful to them, suggesting her favorite dishes.  When she at last takes their menus and walks away, Amélie Vaughn only waits a few seconds before commenting to her son, "She's cute."

He turns his attention to the television screen behind her, reading the latest headlines.  "Mm-hmm, Mom."

"Don't 'mm-hmm' me, young man.  I saw you staring at her."

"I was not staring," he retorts, although he knows he's lying through his teeth.

"It's okay.  She was staring at you too."

"Mom, I'm sure Sydney wasn't staring at m—"

"You remember her name."  She grins triumphantly.

He groans and puts his head in his hands while his mother laughs at him.  She has been trying to get him married for years now; it's become a running joke between them.  When he asked her out to dinner on New Year's Eve, she was alternately pleased and disappointed.  If she was his date, this meant he was single again; not that she really thought Alice was right for him, she reminds herself.

But this girl . . . she can see the possibilities.  And it has nothing to do with the fact that she'd like to live to see her daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

She is still laughing, and Vaughn's head is still hanging downward, when Sydney returns with their salads.  She places them on the table carefully, not wanting a repeat of an incident earlier that night, while Amélie begins to question her.

"It certainly is busy here tonight.  Is it like this all the time?"

"I'm pretty sure it's this busy on the weekends.  Not quite as full on weeknights."  Sydney shrugs.

"Oh, so you haven't worked here long," Amélie concludes.

She shakes her head.  "Actually, I don't work here at all.  The owner is my roommate.  She needed some extra help tonight, so our friend Will and I got recruited."

"Oh," is all Amélie has to say before Vaughn speaks up.

"Look," he points at the screen.  "It's the countdown to midnight in New York."

Sydney's eyes follow to the television, noticing the running clock in the bottom corner, the ball slowly dropping in Times Square.  She stares, transfixed, and softly counts down the final seconds with her handler.  She grins at the stroke of midnight—she ignores the fact that it's only nine o'clock here; two more hours until closing—and her eyes light up at the gigantic "2003."

She slowly returns to reality and faces her customers.  "Um, sorry about that.  I'm just addicted to watching the countdown from Times Square," she confesses as she blushes.

"You're fine, Sydney," Amélie smiles, looking at her son.  "You weren't the only one counting down the numbers."

She stares into Vaughn's eyes for one of those moments that seems to last forever, one she wishes _would last forever.  But all too soon, the moment has passed, and she remembers that Francie is probably waiting for her in the kitchen with more work to do._

"Enjoy your salads," she chokes out and rushes away, leaving poor Vaughn with his mother.

Between delivering the food, and more bread, and refills on their drinks, _and _dessert, Amélie learns a few more things about this woman who fascinates her son.  Sydney is a banker, works in the big Credit Dauphine building she has driven past downtown.  But she doesn't want to be a banker forever—she seems to emphasize this point, Amélie thinks.  She is also completing her Ph.D. in literature and hopes to teach one day.  She is smart and funny and beautiful and seems as captivated by her son as he is by her—not that either of them are going to admit it.  If she didn't know better, she would say that they have met before, but all Michael does is work, and the only person Michael ever mentions from the CIA is his old friend Eric.  She suspects that if they worked together, it would be impossible for her son to hide his feelings or pretend she didn't exist.

She further wonders if they know each other when Sydney brings back Michael's credit card and receipt for him to sign.  "Thank you very much, Mr. Vaughn," she says, her voice seeming to caress his name.  "And both of you, have a wonderful new year."

"You too," Amélie sincerely tells her.  She lets Michael help her with her coat as she stands to leave, senses more than sees the smile that Michael sends Sydney's way as he stands behind her.

They meander through the restaurant, avoiding the table with the high chair at the end of it, the table where the server is holding an overflowing tray in her hands.  They find themselves walking past the bar when Amélie suddenly stops.

"Jack?" she says hesitantly, staring at the man seated at the end of the bar, an empty glass in front of him.  "Jack Bristow?"

"Amélie Vaughn," he says in a low voice, holding out his hand.  "It's been a long time."

"What's it been, twenty, twenty-five years?" she muses as she shakes his hand.  She turns to her son.  "Michael, honey, this is one of your dad's colleagues.  Jack Bristow, Michael Vaughn."

The two men nod at each other in greeting.  She's sure Jack remembers Michael, can recall that William was always telling stories about him when the two worked together a lifetime ago.  Back before the accident . . .

The three make small talk for a few minutes.  She tells him they are on their way to a party at the home of a friend of the family; he tells her he is meeting his daughter later to ring in the new year.  It is only as they are walking away they pass by Sydney, who flashes a smile at them and continues walking to the bar—and stops in front of Jack.  She can't hear their conversation, but from the way they are interacting, everything suddenly clicks into place.  Sydney, their waitress, is Sydney _Bristow_, Jack Bristow's daughter.  The way that Sydney and Michael looked at each other . . . she has a sneaking suspicion that Sydney isn't a banker.

"Michael," she says softly, staring into his eyes.  They give her all the confirmation she needs as they step through the door and out into the dark night.

The crowd thins out as people finish their meals and move their celebrations to parties and local clubs.  When Francie locks the door and changes the sign to "Closed," the only patron remaining in the restaurant is Jack, who has volunteered to help them clean up so they can all be out of there before midnight.  Francie is shocked at the offer, but Sydney and Will suspect that he is there more as their security guard than clean-up crew.  While the final tables are bussed and the last dishes are put in the dishwasher, Jack inspects the doors and windows, looking for anything remotely suspicious.  By the time they are ready to leave, there are only five minutes until midnight, so they opt to stay there to ring in the new year; it's better than being stuck in LA traffic.  They turn up the television and watch as the old year turns new again, clink glasses with a bottle of champagne Francie just happens to have around for the occasion.

At seven minutes after twelve Sydney hugs her two best friends goodbye and leaves the restaurant with her father.  She impulsively takes his arm as they walk down the street towards their respective cars.  It means a lot to her that he came to see her, even more that he stayed.  She wonders if he knew Vaughn's dinner plans in advance, or if it was just dumb luck that he was already there looking out for her when mother and son walked through the door.

She shrugs to herself as she pulls out of her parking space and waves goodbye to her father.  The year is not even thirty minutes old, and she feels like she's incredibly close to achieving the goals she set for herself the previous morning.

_1.  I will destroy the __Alliance__._

_2.  I will tell Vaughn how I really feel._

_3.  I will have a better relationship with Dad.  And Mom._

**December 2005**

Fireworks explode into the sky, but she doesn't see their bright colors; that would require her to move from her perch on the couch.  She's been sitting there with her legs crossed for the last few hours, engrossed in her reading.  She didn't even notice that the news was off and her requisite New Year's Eve program was on until eleven forty-seven.  Probably because she had the volume on low, and she didn't recognize any of the music being played.  And every time she looked up, she was staring at an actor or tv personality of some sort that she didn't recognize.

Such is life when you've been dead for two years.

Her life is such a disaster now that it makes earlier years—losing her mother, losing Danny, regaining her mother—seem like simple times, almost like "the good old days" that people are always talking about.

When she died she was living "the good old days."  And she wants them back.

She wants to see her best friend's beautiful smile as they take turns using the bathroom in the morning, preparing for the day ahead.  She wants to sit on the couch and laugh with Will and beat him in those video games he loves so much.  She wants to be able to see her mother at least once a week, even if a wall of bulletproof glass separates them.  She wants to wake up in Vaughn's arms and sit next to him in briefings and brush her hand against his and tease him and taunt him and race him back to her apartment where—

The fireworks interrupt her train of thoughts.  It's probably for the best, she concedes sadly.  She doesn't need to be thinking of him at all, and especially not in that way.  He's not hers anymore.

She doesn't have anyone or anything anymore.  Francie is dead.  Will is in witness protection—granted, it was good to see him a few weeks ago _and did she see him_—but she is in Los Angeles, he is in Wisconsin, and for his safety, it must stay that way.  Her mother is gone; God only knows what happened to her.  Even her old partner is now her boss, stoically giving out commands, not behaving like the Dixon she knew and loved.

And then, of course, there is Vaughn.  There is always Vaughn.

She has a new apartment, which she tolerates.  New furniture, which isn't as comfortable as the old.  Part of her likes having brand-new things, but she still unconsciously jiggles her remote the way she used to do with the old one when she wants to record something, still places her hand where the old snooze button used to be when her alarm clock rings.  She still thinks it is spring 2003, not January 2006.  She is thirty years old, but she never finished her twenties.

She is single, but she never broke up with anyone.

And now she is back to her favorite train of thought.  Vaughn.  Which only makes her cry a little harder, makes her hug the throw pillow in her arms a bit tighter.

It is now New Year's Day—twelve-thirty in the morning, to be exact—and she is alone.  Totally, utterly alone.

She has always been an emotional person, always been prone to tears, but with her life, who could blame her?  But this time, the pain isn't lessening with time; it's increasing.  The tears aren't going away.  The nightmares and the cold sweats and the dead feeling inside of her are growing with each day.  It is increasingly harder to get up each morning; she comes home every evening from the operations center and is asleep within thirty minutes.  She nibbles on a piece of fruit for lunch and only eats dinner if she is around others—namely her father or Weiss.

She can rattle off the symptoms of depression, and she knows she has all of them, but she doesn't try to get help.  She doesn't want it.

She just wants to die.  And _not_ come back from the dead this time.

But she's not that fortunate, so instead she must content herself with the tablets and notebooks that surround her on the couch and coffee table.  Her father presented her with these on Christmas Eve, saying he felt she might be a bit more prepared for them than she was a few months earlier.

On that long-ago day that doesn't seem so long ago, she emptied one of the drawers in her dresser, removing the old, faded sweatshirts and track t-shirts and the journals that were buried underneath.  She had saved every one of them, from scraps of paper with her childish six-year-old handwriting to the journal she had completed the month before.  She felt they were safe in the drawer, but now that she was moving them, she had to find a new hiding place.  Her closet was a possibility, but there was still a chance Francie would notice one if she was looking for a particular skirt or pair of shoes . . . in the end, Sydney shoved all the journals—including the one she was currently writing in; she didn't want anyone, even Francie or Vaughn, to read it—in the safest place she could think of.

The fireproof safe in the back of her closet.

It is the only thing that survived the fire.

She has waited until tonight to rummage through the box, still nestled underneath her pathetic Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  She has smiled and laughed and cried—mostly cried—as she has relived memories she forgot she had.  First grade without her parents.  Starting fourth grade with her new friend Francie.  Her first school dance.  High school graduation.  Freshman orientation.

The day she was recruited into SD-6.

Training, college, Noah.  Graduate school, meeting Will, dating Danny.  Saying yes to his proposal.

Burying him.

Finding out SD-6 was the enemy.  Turning double.

Her father.

Her mother.

Vaughn.

Always Vaughn.

She is caught in an endless loop, a neverending cycle.  All thoughts and memories bring her crashing back to the present, to all that she had and lost.

She wipes her eyes and retrieves another new item that she bought just a few months ago—a leather-bound journal.  She opens it up, writes the date at the top, and hesitates.

She has read through all of her New Year's resolutions from the past.  There are a few that she accomplished—_I will be a good girl so Daddy will come home; I will make at least a 1450 on the SAT; I will destroy the __Alliance_.  There are many that she never accomplished, resolutions that were impossible to keep—_I will not let my job ruin my relationship with Danny; I will use my sick days at the bank; I will not call Vaughn as much._

She suddenly realizes that she has no real plans for 2006, nothing that she wants to achieve, nothing she needs to plan, nothing to look forward to.  This is her new existence—survival.

She picks up the pen she had placed on the coffee table and scribbles one sentence in her journal.  She closes the journal and sets it aside, burying her face in the pillow and feeling the tears well in her eyes.  This may be the hardest resolution she's ever made.

_I will not kill myself._

And she's not certain she can keep it.

~~~fin~~~


End file.
